Shadows on Christmas Eve

Joanna sat alone on the 20th floor of her apartment, staring into the frosted void beyond the window. The storm outside was feral—snowflakes clawed against the glass, and wind howled like a wolf circling its prey. The power had been out for hours, leaving the apartment as cold and lifeless as the memories Joanna spent years trying to escape.

It was Christmas Eve, but that no longer meant anything.

She had lied to everyone who asked. She wasn’t busy. She wasn’t celebrating. She was hiding—from questions, expectations, and the suffocating weight of their concern. Aren’t you lonely? Don’t you want children before it’s too late? Their words had long since blurred into a buzzing hive of judgment, gnawing at her resolve like a swarm of invisible insects.

This year, Joanna chose silence. No family. No friends. Just the storm and the shadowy corners of her apartment.

Her phone was useless now—dead in her hand like a failed lifeline. Snow had swallowed the city whole, piling so high on the streets below that it seemed the world itself was being buried. Her breath curled into clouds in the icy air as she wrapped herself in a thin blanket. The chill in her bones mirrored the hollow ache inside her.

She poured herself a glass of wine, the bitter liquid burning as it slid down her throat. The wine kept her warm, or at least numbed her enough to forget the cold. On the counter sat a single candle—Gingerbread Wishes, its wax cheerful and golden. A gift from a friend long gone. Joanna sneered at it. The irony of something so sweet in a place so empty.

With trembling hands, she lit the candle, watching the flame struggle against the dark. The gingerbread scent rose, syrupy and oppressive.

And then she saw it.

Her shadow, faint and stretched against the wall, twisted and flickered unnaturally. She froze. The candle’s flame danced, but the shadow… it moved with purpose. Slowly, it began to peel itself from the wall, unfurling like smoke. It wasn’t her shadow anymore.

It was something else.

*************

The thing stood tall across the room, its edges dissolving into tendrils of black mist. Its glowing yellow eyes burned in the dark, watching her with a focus that felt predatory. Joanna’s breath hitched, her pulse thunderous in her ears.

“What are you?” she whispered, her voice cracking like the frost on the window.

The figure didn’t answer. It didn’t move. It simply stood there, a dark mirror of her form, yet grotesquely wrong. The silence pressed against her like a physical weight.

In a desperate frenzy, Joanna grabbed the nearest object—a mug—and hurled it. It shattered against the wall, ceramic shards skittering across the floor. The shadow didn’t flinch. It stood unmoved, unbothered.

The storm outside howled louder.

“What do you want?” she screamed, tears burning hot against her frozen cheeks. “Why are you here?”

The figure glided forward, soundless and inevitable. Joanna scrambled back, the edge of her bed catching her knees. It stopped just feet away, crouching low like a predator assessing its prey. She could feel the cold radiating from it—a cold that wasn’t from the storm.

It pointed at her bed.

She blinked, her terror ebbing just enough to allow confusion.

The shadow sank onto the bed. It sat there, its form folding in on itself like smoke caught in a jar.

*************

The weight of her exhaustion bore down on her. Days of hunger, the icy isolation, and the ceaseless war within herself finally cracked her resolve. She picked up the tattered blanket and, with shaking hands, draped it over the shadow.

“There,” she murmured bitterly. “If you are freezing too.”

For a moment, it didn’t react. Then, its form shifted slightly, the edges softening under the fabric’s touch. Joanna felt tears spilling over her cheeks, hot and uncontrollable.

“I don’t know what you want,” she said through gritted teeth. “But I don’t care anymore. Do whatever you came to do. I am tired anyway to fight.”

She collapsed onto the bed beside it, her body trembling violently from the cold and fear. Without thinking, she wrapped an arm around the shadow. Its form was weightless, like holding onto mist, but it didn’t pull away. It stayed, silent and unmoving.

As the storm roared outside, Joanna clung to the shadow as though it were a part of her—a dark fragment of herself she had long denied. Then, sleep came like a thief, stealing her fear along with her consciousness. The last thing she saw was the shadow’s eyes—watching her, soft and patient, as if guarding her dreams.

**************************

Joanna woke to silence, save for the faint howl of the storm outside. Her breath fogged the icy air, and her muscles ached from the cold. She blinked into the dim light of her apartment, her head pounding like she’d been submerged in darkness for days. The candle on the counter had melted into a pool of wax, its faint gingerbread scent lingering like a memory she couldn’t escape.

The shadow was gone.

She let out a weak laugh, shaky and brittle. “It was just a nightmare!". But the words felt hollow, as though even she didn’t believe them. Her fingers reached instinctively for her phone. Still December 24th. Still Christmas Eve.

“This day feels endless” she muttered.

Then, she smelled it.

Warm pancakes. Sweet honey. Hot chocolate.

The scent curled through the air. Hunger twisted in her stomach, raw and painful, but dread crept alongside it. I live alone, she thought, her pulse quickening. Who’s in my kitchen?

She stood abruptly. Her fingers curled around the knife she’d left on the counter the night before, the cold steel grounding her as she stepped cautiously into the hallway.

The soft sounds of movement reached her ears—gentle scraping, rhythmic tapping.

Her heart pounded as she rounded the corner.

And froze.

A towering figure stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with an almost casual grace. His back was impossibly broad, his frame filling the small kitchen like a shadow come to life. Dark, curved horns rose from his head, their twisted shape brushing the low ceiling. His presence was suffocating—wrong in a way her mind couldn’t fully process.

The air thickened. Joanna’s grip on the knife tightened until her knuckles whitened. “Who—what are you?” her voice trembling.

The figure stilled, the scrape of the spatula against the pan ceasing. Then, slowly, he turned.

Her breath hitched as she met his gaze. His face was both hideous and captivating—sunken cheeks and sharp angles that made his black eyes gleam with otherworldly intensity. Dried streaks of crimson stained his skin, his lips curled into a smile that was too calm, too knowing.

“Good morning, Joanna,” he said, his voice like a low rumble of thunder. “You’re awake just in time. Pancakes?”

Her knees buckled, but she forced herself to stay upright. “Don’t come near me!” she shouted, holding the knife between them like a shield.

The man tilted his head, his grin widening into something sharp, feral. "A butter knife?" he said with a smirk. "Bold choice. Planning to spread me to death?"

Her fear spiked, but before she could scream, the horns on his head began to recede, melting into the dark. His face softened, the jagged edges smoothing into something… human. Beautiful, even. His dark hair fell artfully over his forehead, and his golden-brown eyes sparkled with warmth—too much warmth for someone who had just been a nightmare come to life.

And yet, even in this form, there was something deeply unsettling about him.

“Better?” he asked, gesturing toward his now-handsome face. “More approachable?”

Joanna’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Who are you?”

“Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the table, where a plate of golden pancakes waited. “Eat first. Then we’ll talk.”

Her hunger clawed at her insides, but fear pinned her to the spot. She watched as he speared a piece of pancake with a fork and popped it into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated pleasure.

“See? No poison. You think I’d waste good honey?” He smirked, his tone playful.

Against her better judgment, Joanna stumbled toward the table, lowering herself into the chair. The warm smell of food broke her resolve, and her trembling hands reached for the fork. The first bite was heaven. Sweet, comforting—like Sunday mornings in her grandmother’s kitchen. Tears pricked her eyes.

“You’ve forgotten what this feels like, haven’t you?” he said softly, sitting across from her now. His gaze was piercing but kind, his presence oddly calming despite the lingering unease.

She sipped the hot chocolate he had placed beside her, thick and rich, topped with a cloud of whipped cream. The warmth spread through her frozen chest like an embrace she didn’t know she needed.

“Who are you?” she asked again, her voice steadier now.

“I am…” He paused. “Well, that depends on what you believe. I’ve been called many things. A demon. A guardian. A messenger. But for now, let’s just say I’m the answer to a question you haven’t dared to ask.”

Her brows furrowed. “What question?”

His gaze darkened, the playfulness fading. “Why you’ve spent your life surviving instead of living.”

Joanna flinched. “What? What do you even mean? I’ve done everything I was supposed to. I was always the good child. And what did it get me? Nothing. Just more fights to win, more challenges to endure.” Her voice cracked. “I’ve given everything, and I’m still… STUCK.”

The man leaned forward slightly, his golden eyes softening. “Joanna, you’ve fought harder than most. But the problem isn’t the world—it’s that you’ve forgotten how to give to yourself.”

She stared at him confused.

“It means,” he said, his voice soft but firm, “that you’ve spent your life waiting. Waiting for others to validate you. For love to find you. For the world to reward you for being good. But the truth is, life owes you nothing. And the only one who can give you the kindness you deserve… is you.”

Her tears fell freely now, she asked: “Then why… why does it feel like no matter how hard I try, it’s never enough?”

He smiled faintly. “Because you’re measuring yourself by standards that were never yours to begin with.”

“What was the shadow from before? She did not speak like you” she asked hesitantly.

“The shadow was your present,” he said. “The loneliness you’ve wrapped yourself in. It mirrored who you’ve allowed yourself to become.”

Joanna’s hands tightened around the mug, the warmth seeping into her frozen fingers. “So what now?”

“Now,” he said, standing gracefully, “you learn to trust the unknown. You stop hiding behind survival and start living.”

He leaned down then, brushing a kiss gently against her forehead.

Joanna’s eyes fluttered shut as warmth spread through her, quiet and soothing.

But when she opened her eyes, he had paused, his face mere inches from hers. For a moment, the air stilled, heavy with something unsaid. Then, slowly, he leaned closer and pressed his lips softly to hers.

It wasn’t the kiss of a stranger. It was the kiss of something familiar—like hope itself had kissed her. And then, he was gone.

The Little Girl

Joanna woke with a start, her cheek pressed against the cold dining table. Her hand instinctively brushed her lips, where his kiss lingered like an imprint on her soul. The candles had burned low, their faint flames flickering against the darkened walls. Shadows danced eerily, swaying like silent spectators in the dim light.

Her heart sank. “Another dream,” she muttered, bitterness thick in her voice. “That’s it—no more wine.” She rubbed her eyes, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her. “Hallucinating like a lunatic…”

Then, she heard it.

A soft, tinkling sound—laughter.

Joanna froze. The sound, light and distant, drifted from the living room like a melody she had long forgotten. Slowly, she rose, her bare feet numb against the freezing floor. Her breath hitched as she stepped forward, turning the corner.

And there she was.

A little girl sat cross-legged on the floor, clutching an old, worn teddy bear—her teddy bear. Its once-white fur had dulled with age, the seams frayed from years of fierce hugs and whispered secrets.

The girl wore a white dress that shimmered faintly in the candlelight, its lace and ribbons pristine. Joanna’s chest tightened as she stared. She knew that dress. It was the one she had dreamed of as a child, the perfect twirling dress she had begged her mother for—a wish her family couldn’t afford to grant.

The little girl looked up, smiling softly. Her dark eyes—Joanna’s eyes—shone with an innocence and wonder that had long since faded.

Joanna knelt beside her, trembling. “You’re me,” she whispered.

The little girl hugged the teddy bear tighter, as though shielding herself from the cold that filled the room. She said nothing, her silence echoing with a profound weight.

The storm outside surged suddenly, rattling the windows with a deafening roar. A crack split through the air, sharp and violent. Joanna gasped as the living room window shattered, shards of glass raining onto the floor like frozen daggers. She shielded her face, her heart hammering in terror.

When she looked back, her blood ran cold.

The little girl sat trembling, clutching her arms where the glass had pierced her skin. Blood bloomed through the white fabric of her dress, staining it crimson.

“No!” Joanna cried, rushing forward. “No, no, no!"

She scooped the child into her arms, her hands trembling as she brushed the glass away. Pressing her palms over the small wounds, she whispered desperately, “You’ll be okay, my beautiful girl. I promise.”

The girl whimpered softly, her wide eyes brimming with tears. Joanna’s chest ached as she rocked the child gently, murmuring soothing words.

“Hold on,” Joanna said, her voice steadying. “We need to clean these up.”

She carried the little girl into the bathroom, setting her gently on the closed toilet lid. Rummaging through the cabinet, she found an old first-aid kit, her hands shaking as she pulled out antiseptic wipes and bandages. The little girl watched her quietly, clutching the teddy bear with trembling fingers.

“This might sting a little,” Joanna said softly, kneeling in front of her. She dabbed at the bloodied cuts, her heart breaking at every flinch and whimper. “I know it hurts. But we’re brave, right?”

The little girl nodded faintly, her small frame trembling.

Joanna worked carefully, wrapping the girl’s tiny arms in soft bandages. When she finished, she kissed each bandaged wound, as though her lips could erase the pain.

The little girl reached out, touching Joanna’s face with her small, unsteady hand. “Will I live?” she asked.

Joanna froze. The question was so familiar it hurt, a haunting echo of her childhood fears. “Will I live, Mom?” she had whispered countless times whenever the world seemed too heavy, whenever she fell or failed.

Joanna cupped the girl’s face, her tears falling freely. “Of course you will,” she choked out, her voice soft but fierce. “You’re strong. You’re brave. You’ll be just fine. I promise.”

The little girl watched her, quiet and contemplative. Then, slowly, she reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a crumpled envelope. Her small, wounded hands held it out. “Read it,” she whispered.

*************

Joanna stared at the envelope, her hands trembling as she took it. The paper was yellowed and wrinkled, the handwriting uneven and childish. She recognized it instantly—it was hers.

With a deep breath, she unfolded the letter.

Dear Santa,

Hi, it’s me, Joanna. I hope you’re not too busy this year. I promise I’ve been really good.

Please, can you make my family happy forever? I don’t want Mom and Dad to worry anymore, and I want my brother to get all his wishes, too.

But Santa, I have some wishes for me.

I want to be strong and smart when I grow up, like the princesses in my storybooks. I want to be rich so I can help Mom and Dad, and maybe buy myself pretty dresses. And one day, I want to meet my prince—someone kind and brave, who will love me more than anyone in the world.

Oh, and Santa, I want to be like Mom and Grandma. I want to make pancakes and tell stories, just like they do.

I promise I’ll be good forever. Please make it real one day.

Love, Joanna

Joanna’s tears dripped onto the letter, blurring the clumsy words. She looked at the child, clutching her tightly, as if holding onto her past self could somehow erase the years of doubt and pain.

“I’m sorry,” Joanna whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry I forgot you. I’m sorry I stopped believing. I promise I’ll take care of you now. I’ll give you everything you dreamed of. Everything you deserve.”

The little girl smiled faintly, her dark eyes softening. Joanna brushed the girl’s hair back, her hands trembling as she held her. “You’re going to live,” she whispered. “You’re going to be amazing. You’ll be strong, and smart, and loved. I owe that to you.”

The little girl leaned forward and kissed Joanna’s cheek, the touch warm and fleeting. Then, as softly as she had appeared, she was gone.

********

Joanna sat for a long time, clutching the letter in her hands. The storm outside had stilled, its howling winds replaced by a peaceful stillness. The lights flickered softly back to life, filling the apartment with a warm glow. It felt different now—lighter.

The teddy bear sat quietly where the little girl had been, its worn button eyes watching Joanna. She picked it up, hugging it tightly to her chest. For the first time in years, she felt whole.

Hours later, Joanna boarded her plane, the crumpled letter tucked close to her heart. The sun rose beyond the horizon, streaks of gold breaking through the dark clouds like a promise fulfilled.